


Knaves of Coins

by LadySilver



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ficlets, Gen, h/c, outsiders - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/pseuds/LadySilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Danny and Boyd both have in common is an outsiders' perspective. Two ficlets about Danny and Boyd and what happens when outsiders stand together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Have you ever thought about trying out for the team?” Danny asked him a couple of days after the game. 

Boyd was walking through the hall, his backpack slung over one shoulder, and his eyes down out of old habit. When he looked at his over-sized feet, he didn’t have to notice how everyone else’s eyes slid past him like skates on freshly smoothed ice. Though he took up more physical space than most of his classmates, he'd long ago developed the habit of walking with his elbows in and shoulders hunched, in unconscious acceptance of their rejection. For someone so big, he'd been surprisingly invisible.

Now, with each step, he tried to walk a little louder, stand a straighter. He didn’t have to care about how the other students treated him anymore because he didn’t _need_ them anymore. Or, so he kept reminding himself.

Danny’s question interrupted one of those mental reminders and Boyd had to blink a couple of times before he could focus on the fact that another person was talking to him. He threw a glance over his shoulder in case he wasn’t the target of the question. From down the hall, he heard Erica’s laugh and the distinctive click of Isaac’s nails against the metal locker door. His packmates were in the building, but they were not the ones doing the speaking.

Boyd turned back. 

Danny was pacing him, his step confident and his body slightly canted toward Boyd’s, leaving no doubt that he knew whom he was talking to and that he was interested in a response. “You were really good,” Danny complimented, his mouth curving into an appreciative smile. “I’ve never seen someone step out of the stands and play like that.” He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and slowed to a stop, fully prepared, it seemed, to stop for a chat.

For a moment, Boyd was tempted to push past him and keep walking, to pretend that he hadn’t heard anything. People didn’t dare physically antagonize Boyd, but he knew well enough about how they could use words to cut and stab. More, how they could use silence to bludgeon and smother.

As much as he wanted to keep walking, he couldn’t do it. 

Over the years, he’d pretended to have not heard a whole lot of things that had been said to and about him, and he couldn’t do it anymore. 

Boyd drew up against a blank spot of wall in between the lockers and a classroom door and forced his gaze to meet Danny’s. Danny’s brown eyes crinkled with an expanded grin and his body eased into a less guarded posture. Boyd tried to match the stance, though he couldn’t yet bring any expression to his face except careful wariness.

“It was fun,” Boyd answered with, what he knew, was a non-committal comment. 

Danny’s eyebrows quirked in quiet encouragement, and Boyd gusted out a breath. “Hell, it was the best,” he amended. Verbal superlatives couldn’t do justice to the thrill of excitement that had surged through him. Holding his own against players who had spent hundreds of hours practicing, the heft of the ball in his net and the ripping of the grass beneath his cleats as he used his new speed to tear down the field—if he needed validation for becoming a werewolf, that had been it. 

Danny nodded sagely. “Bit you hard, huh?”

“What?” Boyd’s cultivated wariness snapped back in to place and he stood up straighter, arms crossing. His white t-shirt stretched over tensed muscles.

“The cheering, the lights,” Danny clarified with a sidelong look. “That’s what got me the first time I played in a real game. Practices suck, but when it’s time to step out onto the field to play…Did I say something wrong?”

Boyd forced himself to relax, to let his arms fall back to his sides. Danny had never done anything to him, and even though he was friends with Jackson, that seemed like a situation that came equipped with its own punishment. “It’s nothing, man,” he answered. Anything else he could have said was squashed before it hit his lips. He couldn’t tell what Danny knew or what he’d seen, if he was fishing for information or opening the way for a confession. 

Then there was the strangest possibility: maybe Danny just wanted to shoot the breeze. 

Boyd could count on one hand how often he’d had a conversation with a non-family member that wasn’t a business transaction.

Danny cocked his head as if sensing the turmoil in his one-time teammate. After a long moment of waiting in vain for Boyd to elaborate, he turned the conversation back with a careful “You play in your spare time?” He took in Boyd’s height and build with a casual sweep. “You look like a guy who knows his way around the weight room,” he commented. Leaning against the nearest locker like they did this all the time, Danny mused out loud, “The Y fields a pretty good intramural team. Is that where you learned?”

“Nah,” Boyd answered with a shake of his head. “I never touched a stick before the other night.” The confession shocked him even as he heard the words come out of his mouth; he had no reason to be that forthcoming, and a lot of reason not to be. Something about Danny, though, seemed to inspire trust.

Danny’s eyes widened in surprise and he nodded appreciatively. “Then you should _definitely_ try out for the team.”

Boyd rolled his shoulders and listened again for Erica and Isaac. He knew that whatever they were up to, it was going to land someone in trouble. Their ideas of how to use their new abilities and his couldn’t be more different, though, he reflected, all were about exacting some kind of revenge. The thing was, the kind he found on the field had turned out not to be the kind he was looking for. There was no way to explain that, though, so he shook his head again and summed it up with a concise: “Not really my thing.”

“Too bad, man,” Danny said, sounding saddened at Boyd’s rejection. “You seem like you’d fit right in,” 

Through the din of teenagers trying to cram all their socializing into the five minute passing period cut Erica’s laugh. Erica, who had come to the game with him, because she wanted to hang out. With him. Erica, whom he had left alone in the stands because he thought he had something to prove. 

“Playing was fun,” Boyd reiterated. “Nothing wrong with watching, though.”

“Yeah,” Danny answered, after a moment of thought. “It does give you a different perspective, seeing things from the outside.”

Boyd started, for a second wondering if Danny had meant more with that remark than just a comment on lacrosse positions. Careful examination of the guy’s expression, though, showed nothing more cryptic than the slight glaze of introspection, which he quickly shook off.

“That’s why I like playing goal, you know,” Danny continued. Pushing off from the locker, he stepped back out into the hall. An out-turn of his hand invited Boyd to join him, to continue their conversation while they walked. Boyd schooled his face to hide his surprise, trying instead to look like the kind of person who expected nothing else. The expression felt like a cheap mask, a laughable knock-off of the real thing.

Danny’s only response was to explain his statement as if he knew Boyd would want to hear it. “I get to see a different game when I step away from the center of action,” he stated. He glanced around at the people rushing through the hall—all seemingly oblivious to the pair whose physical presences had meant so much to them on the field—and added: “That’s not something a lot of people understand.”

“Do you ever get tired of being on the outside?” Boyd asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Danny let out a short laugh. “Sometimes. Not as much as you might think, though.” He slapped Boyd on the shoulder like they'd just shared a good joke and turned toward the open door of his classroom. “Listen, let me know if you change your mind.”

Boyd's eyebrows went up. “You for real?”

“I saw you out there. You're unreal,” Danny answered.

Boyd could only answer with a short nod. Erica's laugh zinged again through the hallway at the same time as a floppy haired white boy with saggy pants slammed into him from the side. The boy started to protest with a “Hey, watch--”. Then his mouth clamped shut as he saw whom he'd run into, and he skittered into the room.

For the first time, Boyd didn't mind. Calmly, he set off to find his packmates, the glow of Danny's comments strengthening his step.


	2. Chapter 2

“Get down!” Danny heard, and then he was being flung through the air. 

He didn’t remember anything hitting or pushing him. He had been standing, starring into the dark expanse of trees that lined the edge of the road on which his car sat with useless tires, and then he was flying, the shout ringing in his ears. He tucked his body as tight as he could and prepared for impact.

Gravel came up to meet him. It ripped through the thin layer of cloth shrouding his legs and back and tore into his skin. He didn't have time to shout before he slammed into something solid. His vision flickered as a wave of agony crashed through him. 

It was possible that he blacked out for a split-second. The night was darker out here than he was used to: no street lights, a barely-crescent moon, few stars. He shook his head to clear it. A sharp pain cut through his head and he hunkered over, head buried in his arms, hoping to ride it out.

Footsteps crunched across the forest floor. He turned toward them while trying to coordinate the rest of his body well enough to get up and run if he had to. Whatever had hit him was still out there, and probably wasn't done. Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck and adrenaline rushed through his body.

The darkness in front of him thickened, then separated in a large mass that he had to blink at again and again before he could be certain it wasn’t a hallucination. A second later his bleary vision and muddled brain processed that mass as a person. It took another long moment before he recognized the person, and that was after he accounted for the expansive side-burns and strangely ridged face that his now mostly-night adjusted eyes showed him.

Letting his head fall back against the tree, Danny breathed out an exasperated, “You too?” before blacking out for real.

When he came to, Boyd was leaning over him, hands holding Danny's shoulders as if to hold him in place. The headache that should have been pounding was conspicuously absent. Boyd’s face was also perfectly normal, and it occurred to Danny that the whole thing might have been a nightmare—except that he was still in the forest, the moon hadn’t changed, and Boyd’s welcome back words were a low “How did you know?”

Danny struggled to sit up, despite the concern for other injuries. 

“Don't move,” Boyd said, pressing back on Danny and pinning him in place. Twigs pressed into his back and leaves and gravel crunched under the increased pressure, yet trees were conspicuously missing; Boyd must have moved him back out near the side of the road.

Considering what he'd learned, Danny thought he _should_ be afraid, but nothing about Boyd's presence projected danger. The other boy was tense, on alert, crouched in the dirt like he needed to be ready to spring up at any time—but not on the offensive. “Why not?” He blinked past Boyd at the night sky where stars gyrated against the blackness, threatening with each spin to fall down from the heavens. Answering his own question, he stated, “I have a concussion.”

The stolid expression on Boyd's face was all the answer he needed.

Except--

Danny ran a quick inventory of his body. He'd been injured enough times in his life—both on and off the field—to know what concussions and broken bones felt like, and he felt nothing that indicated a reason for Boyd's command. Nothing stood out. He was dizzy and he was not looking forward to trying to stand up, but he'd _played_ with more critical problems. “What happened to me?” he asked. Only after the question hung in the air did he think that he probably should have started with it.

“Wrong time, wrong place, man,” Boyd answered. “I called 911. They'll be--”

A distant shout rang through the woods, followed by a loud crack like a tree splintering. Boyd's head whipped around toward the sound, though his hands never left Danny's shoulders.

“Boyd?” Danny's thoughts crawled through his head instead of racing, each observation and connection taking noticeably longer to process, but he still recognized the sounds of a fight. Put it together with Boyd being in the woods at all this late at night—and the transformation he'd witnessed—and Danny had the sinking feeling that he was lucky to be alive right now. What had he wandered into?

Boyd shook his head. “Just stay still. Try not to attract attention.” He went still for a moment, his fingers curling tighter into Danny's shoulders, then amended his command, “And keep talking to me. About whatever you want.”

“Definitely a concussion,” Danny groaned. Boyd glanced at him sharply, like he'd been trying to keep that a secret. “If I get any more, I'm going to be kicked off the team,” Danny explained. Coach might be unscrupulous when a game was in progress—his will to win overruling any good sense like the worst kind of addictive behavior—but he took no risks with his players between games, and Danny was straddling the line of becoming injured too often to stay on the team.

“You'll be OK,” Boyd promised. A flatness in his tone belied his sincerity. “They're not interested in you.” 

_They?_ Danny thought, just as another shout tore through the night. Instinctively, Danny struggled to sit up, to get to his feet and run away, but Boyd kept him anchored in place. Boyd's thickly muscled arm blocked Danny's view of his own body, and he was starting to think that Boyd was doing that on purpose. The wind shifted then, bringing with it the scent of fresh blood. In the darkness, Boyd's eyes glowed yellow. Danny sucked in a breath, and immediately started to cough. For the first time, pain broke through whatever had been blocking it, and Danny felt himself try to curl around it. Pressure crushed his chest.

“I got you,” Boyd said. He slid his hand down, settling the spread of his fingers over Danny's heart. 

The pain eased, dropped back to nothing, and Danny's breathing settled. He felt suddenly tired, though, like he'd such crammed two straight days of studying into the last few seconds. He knew better than to give in to that. Though words were becoming increasingly difficult to shove onto his tongue, he forced himself to ask, “Shouldn't you be out there?” The crashing and shouting sounded like they were drawing closer.

Again, Boyd shook his head. “The fight's down to the big dogs. My job's here, now, keeping out of the way.” He was still looking toward the direction of the fight, still tensed to spring into action, yet...

“You don't seem real put out by that,” Danny observed, slowly. He listened to the noises, the shouts and yells, many of them inhuman, and felt a tremble run through Boyd's body. “Don't you...you know...want to be part of the action?”

“The fight's not always where the action is,” Boyd answered, once again bringing his attention to Danny. “You're doing great.” He tilted his head, listening. “I hear the sirens. Just keep hanging on.”

The next yell that reverberated through the night was one that Danny would recognize anywhere: Jackson. As he heard it, the yell turned into a howl, its sound echoing through the trees and wending its way into Danny's ears such that he thought he might never stop hearing it.

Danny closed his eyes, let his head drop back against the cold ground. He was so past the point of being surprised. “Who the hell’s brilliant idea was it to make Jackson a werewolf?” he demanded.

“Believe me, I didn't do it,” Boyd answered. “And you still haven't answered how you know about werewolves.”

Danny tried to smile and managed only a grimace. “Told ya, man.” _You see different things when you're on the outside._ The last he wasn't sure if he said or thought, but Boyd nodded so Danny figured that he heard anyway. He could feel himself slipping, and tried briefly to fight against before deciding that giving in was a lot easier.

“How come you ain't afraid?” Boyd asked, confirming Danny's earlier thought that fear was the assumed reaction.

Boyd's voice came from far away, so it took Danny a long moment to push the answer to him. He formed the words carefully, then placed them under the increasingly loud wail of a siren, knowing that Boyd would hear them, too, if he wanted. “Because I know where you stand.”

He felt Boyd's fingers tense against his chest just as a roar rent the air. “We gonna talk about this later,” Boyd told him. Then, sadder: “Sorry I gotta do this to you ... They're almost here.”

Danny was about to ask what Boyd meant when all the missing pain came crashing back in at once. His back arched and his feet dug into the forest floor in a cruel parody of orgasm. He bit his tongue. 

Hardly was Boyd gone when the rotating lights and day-bright headlamps transformed the roadside. Tires screeched and doors slammed; the sirens blocked all the noise coming from the woods.

“This is him!” someone shouted.

“Let's get him loaded up. It's not safe out here at night.”

“I was safe,” Danny wanted to say. “You just need to know the right people.” As the paramedics loaded him into the ambulance, and as he slipped into merciful unconsciousness, he held on to that thought.


End file.
